Ancillary Justice (Imperial Radch #1)(81)
Whoever the inspector supervisor was, she had money and influence enough to bring this adjunct here from Ors. I wanted to ask the young woman the name of her patron, but that would be unthinkably rude. “I’m told,” I said, meaning to sound idly curious, and playing up my Gerentate accent just the smallest bit, “that the jewelry you Radchaai wear has some sort of significance.”
Seivarden cast me a puzzled look. The adjunct only smiled. “Some of it.” Her Orsian accent, now I had identified it, was clear, obvious. “This one for instance.” She slid one gloved finger under a gold-colored dangle pinned near her left shoulder. “It’s a memorial.”
“May I look closer?” I asked, and receiving permission moved my chair near, and bent to read the name engraved in Radchaai on the plain metal, one I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t likely a memorial for an Orsian—I couldn’t imagine anyone in the lower city adopting Radchaai funeral practices, or at least not anyone old enough to have died since I’d seen them last.
Near the memorial, on her collar, sat a small flower pin, each petal enameled with the symbol of an Emanation. A date engraved in the flower’s center. This assured young woman had been the tiny, frightened flower-bearer when Anaander Mianaai had acted as priest in Lieutenant Awn’s house twenty years ago.
No coincidences, not for Radchaai. I was quite sure now that when we were admitted to the inspector supervisor’s presence, I would meet Lieutenant Awn’s replacement in Ors. This inspector adjunct was, perhaps, a client of hers.
“They make them for funerals,” the adjunct was saying, still talking about memorial pins. “Family and close friends wear them.” And you could tell by the style and expense of the piece just where in Radchaai society the dead person stood, and by implication where the wearer stood. But the adjunct—her name, I knew, was Daos Ceit—didn’t mention that.
I wondered then what Seivarden would make—had made—of changes in fashion since Garsedd, the way such signals had changed—or not. People still wore inherited tokens and memorials, testimony to the social connections and values of their ancestors generations back. And mostly that was the same, except “generations back” was Garsedd. Some tokens that had been insignificant then were prized now, and some that had been priceless were now meaningless. And the color and gemstone significances in vogue for the last hundred or so years wouldn’t read at all, for Seivarden.
Inspector Adjunct Ceit had three close friends, all three of whom had incomes and positions similar to hers, to judge from the gifts they’d exchanged with her. Two lovers intimate enough to exchange tokens with but not sufficiently so to be considered very serious. No strands of jewels, no bracelets—though of course if she did any work actually inspecting cargo or ship systems such things might have been in her way—and no rings over her gloves.
And there, on the other shoulder, where now I could see it plainly and look straight at it without being excessively impolite, was the token I had been looking for. I had mistaken it for something less impressive, had, on first glance, taken the platinum for silver, and its dependent pearl for glass, the sign of a gift from a sibling—current fashions misleading me. This was nothing cheap, nothing casual. But it wasn’t a token of clientage, though the metal and the pearl suggested a particular house association. An association with a house old enough that Seivarden could have recognized it immediately. Possibly had.
Inspector Adjunct Ceit stood. “The inspector supervisor is available now,” she said. “I do apologize for your wait.” She opened the inner door and gestured us through.
In the innermost office, standing to meet us, twenty years older and a bit heavier than when I’d last seen her, was the giver of that pin—Lieutenant—no, Inspector Supervisor Skaaiat Awer.
18
It was impossible that Lieutenant Skaaiat would recognize me. She bowed, oblivious to the fact that I knew her. It was strange to see her in dark blue, and so much more sober, more grave than when I’d known her in Ors.
An inspector supervisor in a station as busy as this likely never set foot on the ships her subordinates inspected, but Inspector Supervisor Skaaiat wore almost as little jewelry as her assistant. A long strand of green-and-blue jewels coiled from shoulder to opposite hip, and a red stone dangled from one ear, but otherwise a similar (though clearly more expensive) scattering of friends, lovers, dead relatives decorated her uniform jacket. One plain gold token hung on the cuff of her right sleeve, just next to the edge of the glove, the placement that of something she intended to be reminded of, as much for herself to see as anyone else. It looked cheap, machine-made. Not the sort of thing she would wear.
She bowed. “Citizen Seivarden. Honored Breq. Please sit. Will you have tea?” Still effortlessly elegant, even after twenty years.
“Your assistant already offered us tea, thank you, Inspector Supervisor,” I said. Inspector Supervisor Skaaiat looked momentarily at me and then at Seivarden, slightly surprised, I thought. She had been addressing Seivarden primarily, thinking of Seivarden as the principal person between the two of us. I sat. Seivarden hesitated a moment and then sat in the seat beside me, arms still crossed to hide her bare hands.
“I wanted to meet you myself, citizen,” Inspector Supervisor Skaaiat said, when she’d taken her own seat. “Privilege of office. It isn’t every day you meet someone a thousand years old.”